


Tout seul on n’est rien (ensemble on est trop)

by etoileyoongi



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Inspired by Tangled (2010), It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Jisung is lonely, Love at First Sight, M/M, Minho is /too/ much, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sad with a Happy Ending, Tangled (2010) References, lanterns, soft boys in love, together they're like dynamite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:06:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26425354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etoileyoongi/pseuds/etoileyoongi
Summary: The boy was rugged, wild and everything his mom had always warned him about, and Jisung was done for immediately.or. Jisung is lonely, numb and so devastatingly beautiful. Minho is too proud, too much himself for the world they live in. They’re not supposed to, but they fall in love anyway.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Lee Felix, Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 32
Kudos: 133





	1. the rain

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this fic is (lightly) based off of the 2010 Disney movie Tangled. There are mentions of emotional manipulation, as well as implied mental abuse. None of these are very heavy-loaded into the story, but if those are triggering to you, please be careful. Your own health will always come first.
> 
> The fic has five parts: the rain / a patch of light / the sunshine / the storm / the rainbow. I’m working on the other chapters. Please be patient. I’m doing my best.
> 
> The links you see while reading will take you to spotify songs. I wrote paragraphs and parts of the story with them in mind. I advise you to click them, and - if possible - listen to the songs while reading along. I hope it will add just that little extra.
> 
> As a little side note; the title of this fic translates to “on our own, we are nothing (together we are too much)”. It was a quote someone graffitied on a wall outside of a hotel I was staying at, and it truly inspired me.
> 
> A special little thank you to Rain, who gave me the idea for this fic, and was there when I was freaking out about ships (fy Woojin), I wanted to rant about the plot or just late at night, when I needed to talk. You are such a marvelous human being, and deserve all the joy and happiness in your life. I hope this fic can grant you at least a fraction of it. Ily.

_Beware of mould forming, breaking_

_Breaking free and let them be_

_Be not the moulder nor the moulded_

  
  


**J.**

The thing you have to understand when it comes to loneliness, is that it’s not always a deliberate choice, or something that can be fixed. Through all stories and movies and songs, it sometimes seems as if being lonely is a challenge, that can be resolved in a matter of minutes, hours, days. Like it’s something you might choose to be. But, and here’s what people seem to forget, being alone and being lonely aren’t the same. 

Being lonely aches; so, so bad. Humans need social interaction, thrive off of it. We aren’t made to be surrounded by a deafening silence, to be eaten from the inside out by thoughts we can’t banish or say aloud or do _anything_ about. Loneliness hurts. Loneliness kills.

Han Jisung knows. In his sixteen years of living, he’s been nothing but lonesome. Born to an overbearing and slightly neurotic mother, there was no-one to turn to during hard times or sad episodes. He had to figure it out on his own, had to endure the pain and discomfort that came with it.

When he watches movies, or reads books, there is nothing but a gnawing pain in his stomach, alongside the dull throbbing of his heart. He isn’t used to happiness, or serenity or joy. There is no hope to be found anywhere in his whole being, no awe or gratitude. No love.

He keeps his feelings, dark and rough and too much for one person to bear, inside of himself, just like he himself is kept inside the house, inside this environment that is deemed safe by the only person that he has been taught to trust. And anytime he steps out of line, questions his being and the way he has to live - numb, without a reason - for too long, he is told it’s for his own safety.

_You can’t go outside,_ his mother whispers, face morphed into one of absolute distress, _you have no idea what’s out there. They would hurt you, my love. They would see you and they would attack, without a second thought. You’re so delicate, so airy and fragile, so out-of-this-world. I can’t let them do anything to you. I won’t let it happen._

And he doesn’t know any different, hasn’t ever had anyone else to trust. So he just nods, he promises her to listen to her instructions, to comply with her orders. She’s there to keep him safe, after all. She’s doing it because she cares for him, because she loves him. 

And that’s how life ripples forth, calmly, almost unnoticeable. Alone in his room, surrounded by books and movies and words, with only the company of the moon looking down upon him.

:

[ **There** ](https://open.spotify.com/track/5Zlo5ZYjrr6DwQw1kBi5bA?si=KcMVMstbTzeYeIoByThHHw) is no use in taking notice of how time goes forth at its own pace, like sand flowing through an open hand, when all days are the same. When nothing ever happens, you stop expecting life to take a turn. You don’t follow the concept of time, you don’t engage with it, you just live alongside it, breathing evenly, like you’d walk along the coastline. Every now and then, you throw a glance to your side, not anticipating anything to have changed, so you aren’t disappointed when everything is still the same. You start feeling numb.

It might sound somewhat heartbreaking, but Jisung has learned to live with that same numbness, with the inability of really _feeling_ anything. He goes through the motions of living almost robotically, like he has given up on it. Like it doesn’t matter.

His days are filled with loneliness, with studying and reading, solving math problems and sitting in the closed-off garden, the sky and sun taunting him, rays of sunshine falling down on his skin as if they’re supposed to make his heart rate pick up, as if they can warm his icy soul. He hates it, hates that it makes him feel like he can’t breathe, that it feels like he’s suffering.

When night falls, his resolve starts to crumble. The more he looks at the moon, the more he is reminded of that total and utter sadness that is residing deep within his abdomen. There is sorrow laced into it, sorrow that he’s not strong enough to break out and live his own life. It aches and it stings and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

Most nights, he shuts his curtains, resigned, convinced that this is his destiny. He closes his eyes tightly and curls up into a ball on that huge bed and refuses to cry. Because crying makes it more real, almost tangible, and he doesn’t think he can bear that. It takes him a while to fall asleep.

Sometimes, however, he just breaks. A sob he was unable to suppress, a tear rolling down his face, the walls he built around himself cracking. Those nights are filled with whimpers and tear streaks on his cheeks and pleading eyes looking for the moon. She doesn’t offer him any help, any consolation, but she’s there. He opens up his soul, about how hard it is to live like this, about how he feels so restricted, about how he doesn’t even _know_ freedom. The words she whispers back are soft but cruel, a mix of nobody can help you and you have to get there on your own. Those nights, he doesn’t sleep at all.

:

One night, one of _those_ nights, when he’s 14 and it feels like it’s all just too much to take in, because he’s a _kid_ , and all he has ever known is emptiness and loneliness, and that’s not how it’s supposed to be, a light appears next to the moon.

He doesn’t notice it at first. But then, another one appears, and another one. After a while, the whole sky is filled with warmly-coloured, bright dots. It’s almost magical, and Jisung can’t stop looking at it, tears long forgotten. The lights still spread around the night-sky, and suddenly, it dawns upon the teary-eyed boy. They’re lanterns!

All those little fires lighting up the sky are paper lanterns, like the ones he has seen so many times in movies, read about in books. And god, are they captivating. For the first in what feels like forever, there’s a feeling besides coldness, besides dejection. He looks at the golden lights, dotted around the dark blue canvas the sky provides, with something akin to wonder. It’s fascinating, a kind of beauty he has never before experienced, that he has only read about in old, dusty books he one day discovered in the attic. In stories about princesses and towers and heroes.

It frees something inside of him, melts away the lumps of ice that have over the years clumped together around his heart, allows him to see clearly what’s been going on with and around him. It’s scary, but it’s also so, so liberating. He never wants it to stop. 

He looks at them until they all disappear into the atmosphere, until the moon slowly fades and the sun arrives at the horizon, and the foreign feeling of longing floods his person.

They’re there again when he goes to bed, and the night after, and after that one. And every night again, he looks at them, enthralled, fascinated. The feeling of freedom and warmth they radiate is one he wants to take in, to remember forever. There’s safety in the way they move up at a constant pace, and a sense of peacefulness, as he imagines the people over there, in the city, lighting up the lanterns and letting go of them, and along with it, their worries. He sighs dreamily.

They’re so, so fragile and airy, but they’re still released into the cold, unforgiving air, without worrying about whether they’re going to make it. It’s like they’re speaking to him, telling him you can do it too, just like us. You’re delicate, Jisung, but that’s your strength. You can do it. 

He drinks it in, barely daring to close his eyes, in the fear that those lanterns will suddenly dissipate into thin air, and with them the sense of comfort he’s been feeling like never before.

After a week, they stop, and his heart bleeds. He jumps off his windowsill, where he’s been waiting for them too long, realising they won’t appear again, and running towards his desk. He rummages through it, fits his hand around a rectangular object, and pulls it out for the first time in years.

It’s an alarm clock, some high tech piece of metal and plastic his mom bought him years ago, out of pity, when he begged her for a phone (because she was never home during the day, and he wished for some type of contact with the outside world), and she refused. He received it, plastered a big fake smile on his face, along with an over-enthusiastic thank you, and tossed it in a random drawer first thing that evening.

It was a taunting thing, that little clock. It showed the time, of course, but it went further than that. It had a whole section dedicated to the weather: was it going to rain, how fast was the wind blowing, what was the temperature? Not the most useful for a boy who had never gone beyond the secure fence of his backyard. But, and that was the thing he was focused on right now, it also showed the date, complete with year and everything.

August 7th, 2013. The last date he could remember was somewhere during the winter of 2009, when his mom had forgotten to turn off the tv, and he had watched a snippet of the hourly news. He had been looking at it, fascinated about the parades that were happening in a country far, far away, when his mom had rushed back into the room and turned it off, before launching into a lecture about how scary the outside world was. He had just nodded, still too enamoured by what he had just seen. He hadn’t slept well that night.

But now it was summer, and counting back, he realised the lanterns had started appearing on August 1st, only to stop a week later. And suddenly he thought back to the clips of the parades he had seen so long ago: people partying, walking through the city with big smiles and loud voices, having fun. The lanterns must’ve been something like that as well. 

And god, what he wouldn’t have given to have been there, at least once, when they were letting go of the lanterns, releasing them into the air, instead of having to look at them from his bedroom located further into the suburbs. 

He cried that night, but for once, it was for a different reason. Too many emotions he didn’t know what to do with, feelings he had never had before, that scared and excited him at the same time.

And as he put down his alarm clock on his desk, instead of hiding it away again, he promised himself that, one day, he would make it to the city, to the lanterns.

And the year after, when they appeared again on August 1st, only to disappear again seven days later, he reminded himself of the promise, holding close a clumsily made lantern, out of little sticks and crepe paper.

:

[ **It** ](https://open.spotify.com/track/2AeLlfB0vLKz7nukzQ97ri?si=-_vQmXWWRmazmdwJVWGBbg) was on July 15th 2017, at 9 in the evening, that a strange boy climbed up Han Jisung’s window, into his room. He had been doing homework (math equations, again), but at the sudden thump on his floor, he turned around, shocked, hand grabbing towards his alarm clock as a weapon, only to slowly put it back down when he took in the sight in front of him.

The boy was rough, was the first thing he noticed. He had tousled hair, a sharp jawline and eyes. His mouth was formed into a scowl, his teeth grinding together. He looked Jisung right in the eyes, defiant, almost provocative. Daring him to do something. To tell him he didn’t belong in this safe space, meticulously crafted towards Jisung’s soul, only to be invaded by a _fae_ , gorgeous, deadly.

Because the boy was also really pretty. He had a good body, strong arms and long legs, and while he had a streak of dirt along one of his cheeks, his skin still looked soft. The eyes that were glaring at him were feline, in a way, like he was looking at a cat. His lips, pursed together, looked plush and almost pillowy-soft. 

His heavy black boots, that were now staining Jisung’s carpet, were paired with a pair of ripped dark jeans and a worn-off hoodie, a black shirt peeking from underneath. He had piercings, a lot of them, in both ears, and when the boy moved to tug up his hood a bit more, Jisung saw a glimpse of what looked like dark ink on the inside of his wrist.

He was rugged, wild and everything his mom had always warned him about, and Jisung was done for immediately.

:

The boy’s name was Minho, he told him, when Jisung had left to go get a glass of water after pushing him down on his bed and fixing him with a silent glare, cringing at the stains of dirt that were now decorating his floor. His voice was surprisingly soft, and higher than Jisung had anticipated. And he was running from the police.

He gestured towards a dark backpack that had been thrown into a corner of the room when the boy first jumped in. Jisung could see a spray can peeking out from where the zipper was slightly ajar, and he understood. He had heard about graffiti before, had seen it in movies a few times, in passing, colorful, bold works of art made on walls. Beautiful, but dangerous. Illegal.

“You even know what that is?” The voice sounded harsh, now, defensive in a way that Jisung hadn’t expected, but somehow understood. The boy was alone, in a stranger’s room and with no way of safely escaping, so the only thing he could really do to protect himself was put up his walls. And while a little part of him wanted to bite back, showing the boy he wasn’t just some harmless doll he could talk to that way, a bigger chunk wanted to comfort him, make him feel secure in a world that had obviously been harsh to him.

So he just mumbled under his breath, answering with a cautious I do, trying to add a smile at the end. Minho didn’t immediately answer, and he didn’t just magically relax either, but the tension in his shoulders lessened a bit, the bite around his lips slowly dissipating. It was exciting, somehow, and it made Jisung want to go on, to slowly unlock every muscle inside the boy until he was pliant, comfortable where he was, with _him_.

“So what happened?” And oh, Minho immediately went rigid again, but he hesitated, seemingly having an inside battle about whether to reply truthfully or make up some lie. He looked Jisung in the eyes, and what he found there had to have been enough.

“I got caught. Someone called the cops on me, and I didn’t realize it until they pulled up and I was looking right at their flashing lights”, he scoffed, pronouncing the word _cops_ mockingly, but he also looked ashamed admitting it, and Jisung wasn’t quite sure whether it was because he was doing something wrong, something illegal, or because he almost let himself get caught. Because those cops almost outsmarted him. It didn’t matter that much anyway.

He hummed. “And you couldn’t get away?” He willed his voice to sound as neutral as possible, but he couldn’t help a bit of disbelief creeping in there. The boy, from what he had seen so far, was lithe, quick on his feet and guarded, and there really was no way he couldn’t outrun the police.

Minho shrugged, sluggish, leaning back on one of the pillows behind him. “I don’t really know the neighborhood that well. I’m from the city, we don’t have cul-de-sacs like this there, so i got stuck. This”, he gestured around Jisung’s room, faltering a bit upon seeing the closed window, “was kind of my last resort”.

And Jisung probably should’ve told him it was okay, should’ve assured him or at least have said something, but he couldn’t. Because _the city_ . Minho was from the city. Minho, the boy who climbed up his window in the middle of the night, who _owed_ him something, could possibly help him, _had_ to help him.

And in that moment, nodding his head, with Minho’s piercing gaze on him, analyzing, unsettling, begging him to speak up, and the moon shining down on them, as if telling him everything would be okay, Han Jisung made his very first spontaneous decision, one that would make a serious impact on his previously oh-so-predictable life.

“I want you to bring me to see the lanterns”.

:

The next hour or so passed in a blur of hushed whispers and frowned eyebrows, of nods and headshakes and finally, eventually, a firm handshake. It all came down to this.

  1. Minho knew what he meant with _the lanterns_ , and he basically confirmed what Jisung had been suspecting all along: that it was some sort of festival organised by the city, that it was free to visit for everyone and happened over the span of a week. (He had visited it before once, he told Jisung. it was pretty, for lack of a better word. It had something ethereal, something mystical. It was as if it was made for him).
  2. Upon realising that he had actually _never_ been outside, Minho had looked rather concerned, saying something about abuse and Rapunzel under his breath, before shushing him, a hand cautiously coming to rest on his own. To Jisung, it was an agreement to bring him to the lanterns. To Minho, it was so much more, a silent promise to get him out, to care for him. He didn’t know how, or why, but he was getting attached quickly. Too quickly, in any other case. At exactly the right pace, in this one.
  3. He promised he would come back for Jisung soon, pressing a note with his phone number on there in his hand. Just as a precaution, he told him, in case he ever broke free and Minho wasn’t there. So they could find their way back to each other. And Jisung didn’t say it out loud, he never would’ve, but it meant a lot. He didn’t have a phone, nor a phone number himself, but he now had someone to turn to, maybe, if something ever happened. It was a reassuring feeling, and he cherished it. (He would have memorized the number by the time the sun climbed up into the sky, emerging from the horizon, so far away. But that’s a secret).



They keep going on, after that. About their lives (or lack thereof), their hobbies, their passions. Jisung talks about the books he reads, the ones he found in the attic long ago, that his mom doesn’t know about, about the moon and the stars and the first time he saw the lanterns. He has never before had an actual conversation before with anyone that isn’t his mother, but he feels like he just can’t stop, now that he’s got a taste of the thoughtful nods and melodic hums Minho grants him as he listens, intently, to every word leaving Jisung’s mouth.

Minho talks too. About school, skating, his life in the city. He talks about his family back at home, far away in the countryside (“you should come to visit them with me sometime, Jisungie” Minho tells him, and Jisung wants to cry).

He talks about his roommates, his friends, the little family they’ve formed. He talks about mornings filled with rushed laughter and burnt pancakes, when they have all slept over and have to hurry to get to their college classes on time. About movie nights with pizza and cheap wine and bad horror movies. He talks about dimples and freckles, deep voices and long limbs tangled together, eyebrows raised in playful disgust and smiles so bright they could heal the world.

Jisung’s heart aches for a life like that.

He can’t help but inch closer, wanting to absorb everything that is said, wanting to imprint the way Minho’s tongue curls around some syllables more than others, the way his eyebrows seem to talk too, selling out every emotion passing through his mind.

When the clock displays 1:17, long after midnight, with the hours having passed soundlessly, Minho subtly starts shuffling around, before finally confiding to him he has to go. Jisung nods, tells him he understands (and he _does_ , but a part of him is selfish, wants to keep Minho with him, so happy there is finally _someone_ , not wanting to let it go). He helps Minho gather his stuff with a sad smile on his face, and eyes full of questions, of insecurities, which are swept aside the moment the other boy takes his hand and tells him he will be back.

And so, just as sudden as Minho appeared in his room, he climbed back out of the window, letting the dark swallow him, with a small wave and eyes that were shining in the cold but clear night that surrounded him. His ratty backpack was nonchalantly slung over his shoulder, and as he turned around to peek over his shoulder for just a moment, Jisung caught a hint of a promising smile.

As he closed the window again, forgoing securing it _on accident_ (because what if something happened that night? What if Minho was stranded or had to run again and came back. It was unlikely, but still. There was a possibility), he let himself dream for a moment.

Dream about the endless, incredible world on the other side of that same window, that was now closer than ever before. Dream about long lanes and busy corners, noises and people and _freedom_. Dream about lanterns.

Dream about a certain boy with a face like stone and a voice like honey.

  
  
  


**M.**

[ **Minho** ](https://open.spotify.com/track/0SJ7vFES0Lj6pnumh3DhCe?si=fLGrhfq5QtiEGfCWOZlYqQ) let the door behind him fall close, and pulled his backpack a bit higher on his shoulder. It was summer, which meant no school and a lot of time to hang around and overthink basically everything. He knew he could go and visit Felix and Chan, but it was still early, and they deserved some time alone. Some time to feel like college students again, instead of surrogate parents, or brothers, to 5 other young adults, who regularly had to cope with them crashing date nights and picking them up after a breakdown.

Sometimes, it felt like everything just went by too fast, and no matter how hard tried, he couldn’t keep up. Like he spent his whole life rushing behind the rest of the world, unable to match up his pace. He was 18 now, expected to know what to do with his future, yet here he was, carrying spray cans and a skateboard around, with nothing but a blank slate in front of him.

Because how could he possibly know what to go for, if he doesn’t even know himself? Chan sometimes mentions how nice of a person he is, and by the way Felix will melt into his arms when he pulls him in for a hug, he knows he loves him and is comfortable with him. He helps Jeongin with his homework when he can and has dance battles with Hyunjin when the other whines for attention.

He joins Changbin on their shitty balcony in the middle of the night, head on his shoulder, voices soft, words and smoke floating up into the air. He sneaks away to help Felix with cooking whenever the living room gets too busy, slotting next to the other’s small frame and wordlessly starting to cut vegetables. He bickers with Seungmin, jaws tight and fists balled, only to lazily pull him down on the couch later that evening, legs intertwined, smiles soft.

Minho knows that if you’d ask his friends, they’d tell you he’s a good person, maybe even a great one. He’s caring towards who he considers his family, always looking out for them, trying to stand strong and be there whenever he’s needed. In those moments, he loves himself.

But it’s not always like that. The sneers old ladies sitting on the benches in the park send him, the way mothers hold their kids’ hands just a _little_ bit closer when he brushes past, the way the grocery clerk seems to pay more attention to him making his way through the store than to anyone else. All those things tell him that the world sees him as a threat, a shitty influence, a bad person. That it’s not _his_ world he’s living in.

They close their eyes and minds and look down upon him, sneering at his pierced ears and coloured hair, at the dark lines littering his skin, because as long as they think it’s pathetic, that it’s him being malignant, it doesn’t matter that there’s a story behind the drawings. They only see his dark eyes, not the exhaustion behind them. They see the spray cans in his backpack, not the buttons about equality and inclusivity he pinned on the dark fabric. 

They see what they want to see and judge him, shallowly. They put him in a box, because that’s what they’re taught to do, because that's what the world rewards them for. And he knows which boxes he fit. Thug, rebel, juvenile delinquent maybe. Not a part of them, that’s for sure.

In reality, he’s just a teenager. He’s trying to find his way in this fast-changing world, trying to change along with it as well as he can, to keep up. 

It’s hard to find his own space in society, in this city, on this earth with everyone passing by, focused on only themselves. It hurts sometimes, but he’s come to terms with that long ago. He knows it’s going to happen again, that sadness and depression; anger and fury; discomfort are emotions that will be accompanying him along the way, but that they will pass as well.

And he doesn’t want to live life scared about what’s going to happen. So for now, he keeps going, even if he doesn’t know yet where he’ll end up, how he’ll end up. He tries not to worry too much, to get his head off of it and not be as serious, as long as he can help it. It’s hard, and it doesn’t always work, but right now, it’s enough.

He halts at the bus stop, passing by a few other people standing around, waiting, to sit down on the curb. He lowers himself with a sigh, watching the way a stream of water flows by his feet, only to ebb into a sewer grate after a few meters.

A first bus stops by, and he looks up. It’s the one that goes further downtown, and he knows he could take it, end up on his Australian friend’s doorstep anyways. It would be so easy, to get into it, show the uninterested driver his pass. He could find a window seat, it’s not that busy yet so easy on the bus route, he knows from years of experience. He could listen to some music, maybe finally start reading the crumpled book he borrowed from Changbin ages ago. He could have dinner with his friends, knowing that Jeongin had now basically moved in with the other two, and that Hyunjin and Seungmin just followed the younger. Maybe his roommate would even show up randomly after his shift at the 7-eleven was done. It would end up as a nice night, one they’ve had a lot.

He doesn’t do it. the bus driver honks, as if urging him to step on, to do what he’s been doing all summer, what he’s used to. He shakes his head instead, pasting a polite smile onto his face, watches as the bus finally starts his engine and slowly disappears around the corner, and with it, seemingly, his last chance at a normal day.

He takes the next bus, one that will take him to a suburb he vaguely knows from old elementary school friends and another skater he sometimes sees at the park. It’s foreign, exciting and scary all at the same time. He feels as if he made the right choice.

By the time he gets off, stepping down onto the sidewalk, face to face with a perfectly neat and well-organized lane, the night is already starting to fall. He doesn’t give himself time to feel regret, however, and walks into the nearest store. It’s big, with a shiny, clean floor and sleek walls. Even the cash register looks a hundred times more bougie than the one he’s used to seeing Changbin behind, and he feels extremely out of place. It doesn’t matter, he thinks, as he leaves the building with the gaze of the clerk burning into the back of his head and a sandwich in his head. None of them matter.

He walks around, eating, eventually finds an empty wall inside an alley that’s a bit more obscure, as far as that’s a thing in the suburbs. He puts down his backpack, rummages through it, thinks about what piece he’ll make. Gets ready. Let’s go of his mind and all the thoughts whirling inside of it.

He gets so into it, even, that he doesn’t notice the siren that’s been going off for the last few minutes until he’s suddenly bathing in a cold, blue light, his shadow casting on the piece he’s been concentrated on. In a panic, he grabs his bag, throws everything inside of it (thank god he’s taught himself long ago to meticulously put back what he isn’t using), and takes off, hands still forcefully trying to pull up the zipper. He starts slaloming, turns around random corners and runs down streets he doesn’t know even exist. The car behind him tries to keep up, but Minho is nimble, fast on his feet. He’ll make it.

That is, until he realizes he’s run into a dead-end street, trapped like a rat. The car hasn’t turned around the corner yet, but judging by the sound steadily growing louder, that won’t take too long. He’s done for, he thinks as he desperately looks up at the houses for any indication of an escape route. Something shiny catches his eye as the noise that has been following him for the last 5 minutes amplifies yet again.

And maybe, in that moment, life took pity on Lee Minho, and decided to help him. Because just like that, it sends him down a whole new path to discover.

:

[ **Everything** ](https://open.spotify.com/track/1F9FQp9dnnQWTkaK6Nzm1W?si=2Tmmx58IQFqpplLHZ2yuFw) changes after he meets Jisung. It had been an accident; he had been running from the police and in a moment of utter hopelessness, he had jumped up to the closest drainpipe, dragging himself up and rolling into an open window. After all, a drowning man will clutch at a straw, and while Minho didn’t particularly have a lot to lose, there was still this little splinter of hope stuck deep within him, begging him to succeed in life.

He hadn’t expected there to be a boy, and definitely not one like Jisung, and for a moment, he had thought that maybe climbing back out and revealing himself to the police was gonna be the easier way out. But there was just something in the boy’s eyes, he couldn’t perfectly tell what, urging him to stay.

So he did, not knowing what he was getting himself into.

If he could go back, he would’ve done exactly the same thing.

Jisung isn’t like he expected him to be. He isn’t snobby or arrogant, doesn’t realize just how much he got for granted just by being born in the suburb. 

Instead, he is friendly, lovely, giving Minho the chance to stay there for a while, to _be_ , to _exist_ for a while, in a space that wasn’t made for him. In a space too neat, with a perfectly made bed and fuzzy pillows and math homework laying on the desk, long forgotten.

If he thinks about it, Han Jisung is a bit of an anomaly. Maybe it has to do with the fact that he’s had to grow up on his own, or because his mom literally forbids him to go out (which, to Minho, is quite worrisome. Maybe they should talk about that later on). Maybe because he’s never learned to be critical, or judging. 

He’s been alone for too long, and it worries him so much, the way it could impact his life. The way he has been kept _from_ an actual life for forever, just a few steps away on the other side of the pretty blue walls that grant him his room, his only safe space. It makes Minho want to reach out his hand, wants to ask Jisung to come with him, to _trust_ him. 

He wants to take him to the lanterns, wants to show him everything this world has to offer, wants to be there on the first day of his actual life.

Wants to show him how bright he can shine, in his own way, a way no one else ever has. Brighter than fireflies, than stars, than those lanterns he adores so much.

Because if there’s one thing he knows for sure, it’s that Han Jisung is not like anyone else in this world.

Luckily for both of them, Lee Minho isn’t either.


	2. a patch of light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And what if it’s not? Then what?”
> 
> “Well, that’s okay too. It’s the good part about dreams, huh. You get to find a new one.”

_In this world without a will_

_Will you promise this_

**J.**

In all honesty, Jisung had expected Minho to just dip and leave him alone. It’s not that he didn’t trust the boy - but also, how could he, he had never _had_ anyone to trust - it was just that he couldn’t believe that anyone would ever go out of their way just for him, and to make him happy.

His whole life, he had been told tales by his mother about how horrible people outside of their little bubble were. Selfish, cruel, hard as stone. The world they lived in, his mom said, was merciless and vicious, like a shark constantly on the lookout for even just a drop of blood. And as soon as people could discover even a trace of fear and hesitation on your face, they would strike.

_The world outside of here, our safe haven, isn’t for people like us, Jisungie._ Her voice was forceful, authoritative. He couldn’t look away. She told him, over and over again, until it was the only thing resonating in his mind.

 _Listen to me, my son. Mother knows best. You’re too delicate, too radiant. You’re like a ray of sunshine. They will destroy you, my love. They will take one look at you, and they will break you, quench you, until there’s nothing left but a little pile of broken boy._

_And what if I’m not there to save you? You’re helpless. There’s no one you can turn to in this world, Jisung, no one but me._

And for so, so long, he believed her. Hung on every word, although it was a prophecy. Stood in line and nodded and smiled and kept quiet, receiving little acknowledgments, mumbled declarations of love. He thrived on them. It was the closest to _feeling_ he had, the closest to having someone.

Even when Minho came - and went, disappearing in the night with nothing but a silent vow to come back, a buoy Jisung would hold tightly until the end of time, struggling to keep his head above the crashing and unforgiving waves - he didn’t _actually_ believe. He had never learned to trust anyone, didn’t know how to have faith, an emotion foreign in his perfectly crafted world of books and math equations that never really stretched past the protected space of the house, barely reaching into the backyard. 

He had never had to. So even though Minho gave him a phone number, that he had memorized almost immediately, before destroying the piece of paper (it was a secret. _He wasn’t supposed to have secrets_ ), and even though Minho had grabbed his hand tightly, forcing the smaller boy to look him in the eyes, _really_ look, promising him he’ll come back for him, he’ll help him, those things still didn’t seem to actually get to him, hit him in his core. Instead, Jisung told himself not to hold any expectations. Too afraid to lose even the illusion of having someone, a friend.

(Life was easier like that, we’ve talked about this. Indifference is a weapon, used as both offence and defense, and it is so much easier to just give up sometimes. If you didn’t hope for anything to happen, you would never feel left down. The numbness was something you had to deal with, had to treat as a side effect).

Over the years, he had taught himself to build walls around him, strong ones made of stone, with reinforcements and guards taking watch constantly. It was tiring, god he was _so tired_ , but it was the only way to cope, to keep living this life, alone and without much contact outside of his walls. 

For the first sixteen years of his life. It had worked perfectly. The walls stood high, without even the insinuation of falling down, the littlest idea that they would one day not be strong enough to protect his fragile heart. But when Minho appeared into his window, with his glossy eyes and velvety voice, he was about to change up everything. To _ruin_ everything Jisung had ever known with his accent and his tattoos and his presence.

And the first cracks were already starting to appear, if you looked closely, if you cared enough to look. He was scared. So, so scared, in a desperate, all-consuming way that seeped into his bones and left him confused and restless, cold as ice. So he held up the covers, pushed against the walls just to keep them up, obstructing them from collapsing like they are _supposed_ to, gravity pulling at them. He knew he couldn’t keep it up forever, couldn’t go against fate and nature and life, but for now this had to work, he had to keep going like this.

So he did. Aching, hurt, tired. But he did.

:

Two days later, an hour after his mom had left for work, whatever that was, and _why didn’t he know what that was_ , Jisung could hear the bell ring while he was upstairs, trying to make up his mind about what book he should reread yet again. Outside, on the sidewalk, there was a boy with fluffy ruffled hair and a white shirt as clear and bright as his smile.

And he would never say it aloud, or even write about it, wouldn’t even dream of doing any of that, instead opting to keep it a secret locked inside the toughest treasury, deep down in the lowest catacomb the castle of his being had to offer, but that was the moment Jisung could feel his walls starting to crumble.

:

_Oh, my dear Jisung. Fate has always wanted life to work out for you, even if it doesn’t seem like it._

_On her way down, the moon clings to the sun, begging him to take care of you, only letting go once she’s reassured you’re in good hands._

_You’re loved by the stars and the clouds and every little droplet of water that slams against the house at night, tirelessly trying to free you. You’re loved by the tree in your backyard, leaves rustling in a lullaby to bring you to sleep, and the vines outside of your window clinging to the wall, just to be close to you. By the birds flocking around your bedroom to keep you company, and the butterflies passing by just to try and bring a smile to your face._

_Your presence is loved by the entire universe, my ray of sunshine. You will no longer be sad like this ever again._

:

So, yeah, Minho was standing at his doorstep, at 11 in the morning, with a smile so bright it could rival a diamond and an excited glint in his eyes. And he told him he was taking him out for the day.

Surprisingly, the freak out did not happen as soon as it hit him _what in the world he was about to do_. Instead, he just nodded, tried to smile back, and asked Minho if he had to bring something. And if he did, could he please wait for a minute while Jisung was making a backpack.

He was smart enough to rummage through one of the drawers inside the living room, searching for the spare key he had once seen his mother hide there, long ago. It took a while, the dresser messy and unorganized, and for a moment he feared it wouldn’t be there anymore. Maybe his mother took it away somewhere in the last how-many-years, maybe this was a sign he shouldn’t do it, maybe this was all a big mistake.

Then his hand fit itself around a small piece of metal, and it was as if life was telling him to go on. So he did.

:

“[ **So** ](https://open.spotify.com/track/2ofZmsQptNzgUfmbNlnPYI?si=JpZvj60dSqWqOBTac2kYLw), what’s going to happen now?” They were walking next to each other on the sidewalk, and Jisung really did hope Minho knew where he was guiding them, because he had just followed the other boy when he took off in a random direction. They soon had matched up their pace, falling into a comfortable rhythm. They were close together, so close that he could see the birthmarks dotted on the others nose and that, every once in a while their hands would brush together. Neither of them shied away from the touch.

Minho took a while to answer. Instead, he took his time taking in their surroundings. The trees they walked past, the pebbles their feet kicked up, causing dust to appear along their feet. The sun shining down on them, battling the clouds, as they walked in between the beams of shade the houses caused. The boy next to him, looking up with clear and curious eyes, so lovely, so trusting.

“The weather’s nice isn’t it? Better than you’d think.” His voice, once he finally spoke, was soft, controlled. “It’ll warm up soon, and it's always a few degrees hotter in the city, anyways.” The boy walking next to him didn’t seem impressed, as he pushed together his lips and his eyes narrowed. He might have looked sweet and precious, but there was a bite to him, waiting to blossom, that Minho couldn’t wait to discover. 

He sighed. “I don’t know. It’s just- the weather was nice, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you alone in that large house. I wanted to help you. Show you what life can be, if you will.” He let out a snort, surprised at how truthful he was being, and the cheesiness of the last sentence. But still, everything he just said seemed to come right out of his heart.

Jisung was at a loss for words for a moment, before he brightened up visibly, subtly picking up his pace. It was cute, really, to see how excited he got just at the thought of freedom. A bit sad too, morbid if you thought about it for longer. Minho wanted to change that. Wanted to never think about the boy that was in a way other than full of love and admiration. 

(And he knew they were going fast with whatever this was, but it felt right. And he wanted to trust his gut on this one, instead of the rules and expectations society had been trying to push upon them. Because really, neither of them were really your ordinary person anyway, not made to fit into the mold anyway.)

So Minho let himself be pulled forward when their hands found each other almost automatically, fingers perfectly slotting together, like it was meant to be. Like those two broken, lonely souls were destined for greatness, together, entangled, intertwined. And just like that, the universe smiled down at them, two boys running down the street.

:

In the end, Minho got him to calm down a bit, opting to take the lead instead (because, after all, and for all he knew, this was the first time Jisung had actually stepped foot outside, and he was _not_ about to let his new whatever step in front of traffic) and guiding them towards the bus stop he ended up at the week before, when it all began. Instead this time, he had two bus tickets in his pocket, and he flashed them to the driver as they ascended, tightening his grip on Jisung while doing so, unreasonably afraid of nothing, everything, steering the boy beside him towards the very back of the bus. He gestured to him to take place, immediately sitting down when he could, sighing and leaning his head against the back of the seat.

“So, now what?”, Jisung repeated his question, looking up at him (and how was it possible that he still looked this small when they were sitting?) almost pleadingly, and full of trust at the same time, like he truly believed Minho held the answer to every question he had. 

“Now we go and have fun. What’s your first dream, princess? You have a list, right?” The words are playful, full of mirth, provocative in a way balancing on just the right side of friendliness and sincerity. Because he’s being genuine here, no matter how teasing he sounds.

Jisung is quiet for a moment, hesitates, bright vibe suddenly dimmed. It worries him, makes him think he has done something wrong - he doesn’t know what, but _something_ \- and he’s about to apologize for, well, _being him_ , when the other boy starts speaking again.

“It’s just that.. I’ve been looking out of a window at the outside world for sixteen years now, dreaming about the things I would do when I finally left the house for the first time. All I know comes from books and movies and stuff like that. What if it’s not everything I dreamed it would be?” His voice goes up at the last few words, voice desperate, almost frantic now, and Minho is both _so_ sad and _so_ endeared. Oh god.

“Well, I’m quite sure it will be everything you’ve dreamed about. Maybe even more. After all, this is about you.” He tries to sound as reassuring as possible, senses that Jisung needs that right now instead of his usual go-to of telling people not to be so sensitive (and, besides, he likes the fact that Jisung is somewhat sensitive. It makes him who he is.)

“And what if it’s not? Then what?” He still doesn’t sound convinced, quite the opposite of it really, but the frown on his face is getting less harsh, his shoulders are climbing higher just a bit. Like a sunflower looking for the sun after a dark, cloudy night.

“Well, that’s okay too. It’s the good part about dreams, huh. You get to find a new one.”

:

[**They**](https://open.spotify.com/track/2wpiWR4tTz4ewnYV1v4KQC?si=zOjwxTahSxyqORCI3Wckxw) went on a picnic. In one of the city’s small and hidden parks, littered around like pebbles strewn around, fallen out of a pocket. Behind high iron fences, showing its beauty only to those who are truly looking for it. It was perfect for Jisung. For Minho, too, in some way. For the two of them.

It had been Jisung who had spotted the bright yet ultimately often overlooked gem, on their way to _somewhere_ , though they were mostly just aimlessly walking around, absorbing everything their senses spotted, trying to get used to the feeling of being free and being together respectively.

And when Jisung had pointed it out to him, excited like a little puppy about his new find, Minho had melted just a tad bit more, nodding along enthusiastically and dragging the boy with him to the closest corner shop (by his hand, because that’s a thing they did now, apparently. Neither was complaining) with the promise of buying him whatever he wanted.

They had eventually settled on french bread, _baguette_ as Jisung had teasingly corrected him, with some cheese and fruit and chocolate, and when the other hadn’t been looking, too enamoured with the colourful popsicles occupying the freezer of the little shop, Minho had sneaked in a couple of flowers that were just on the right side of wilted (they were discounted - probably because of that - but still. A discount, and a giddy blond boy next to him was everything occupying his mind these days).

They ended up on a bench, surrounded by blooming bushes and away from the only path in the small patch of nature that seemed to be busier. Above their heads, there were birds singing their song and they could hear a dog barf and the giggling of children playing at the small playground closeby. But in that moment, hidden out of sight from the judging stares the rest of the world reserved for people like them, nothing else mattered.

They stayed there for a while, long after there was nothing but crumbs and a few strawberries left, bellies filled with food and an overwhelming amount of love. Minho had his head in Jisung’s lap, getting his hair played with by soft and nimble fingers, listening to an even softer, almost velvety voice singing to no one but him.

They talked, and he told the younger one about his friends, about school, about things that seemed so plain and normal and even boring to him, but that were taken in greedily by Jisung. He talked about his families, both his old one and the new one he got to choose himself. 

“You can do that, you know. Family is not solely about sharing a blood bond. You can find one, create it even, piece it together with people you feel comfortable with until it’s your safe space. It’s what I’m doing. It’s worth it.”

The _you should do it too, maybe_ wasn’t spoken out loud, but it was definitely implied, and Minho got scared for a moment when Jisung didn’t answer immediately, lifting up his head in a sudden, frantic move. He was pushed back down gently, Jisung worrying his lip and nodding, ultimately just letting out a soft huff, signaling a change of topic.

They don’t get up for a while after that, but it stays quiet, just them enjoying each other's company, no words having to be spoken in order to express what they both feel deep down in their core.

And that’s how they spend their first few hours really together, hearts and souls growing closer to each other.

:

It’s already a couple of hours into the afternoon when they decide to get up and leave their safe haven, bidding goodbye to the roof of leaves above their heads, trying to shield them from the cold outside. They gather their litter and backpacks, putting back on their jackets, and leave, resuming their walk towards the city centre.

It’s Minho’s turn now, Jisung tells him, to decide what to do, and he agrees easily, a smile on his face as an idea grows in the back of his mind, easily navigating them through the busy, clean streets where all the rich people do their shopping and into a more lively, less tight neighbourhood, with houses standing close together and kids running past them and their way to the icecream parlor hidden in between an abandoned clothing store and a large stone wall leading into a courtyard, which is where Minho guides them to.

He knocks on the door, whistles a tune, and then grabs a key from underneath a potted plant. It’s fluid, easy, more muscle memory than actual thinking, like he’s done it a thousand times before. And well, judged by the familiarity with which he unlocks the door and walks richt in, confidently, like he’s sure of his presence and his place in this environment, he probably has.

And as Minho beckons him forward into the space that seems so right for him,crafted perfectly, like home, Jisung wonders if one day he’ll have a place like that too.

_(oh Jisung, sweetheart, you don’t know what’s coming. This universe would give up everything for you, molding itself to fit perfectly around you. You’re everything)._

**M.**

[**Jisung**](https://open.spotify.com/track/5SifNhmUO8iSEoWFQU8kxH?si=DsfLqAtXS2KRkVES1Grqww) is bright, in a devastating way, so utterly unaware of his own beauty that it makes his heart hurt. He’s pure, innocent in a way that he probably shouldn’t be, the years of being alone, with no one but the moon to talk to, being to blame. He’s radiant, like the sun, all nose scrunches and sweaty hands and excited gasps. He’s everything Minho was told he could never have, everything he _wants_ to have, everything he has.

He’s soft skin where Minho’s is rough and calloused, having grown thick over the years of being thrown slurs and foul words at. He’s a dainty voice, syllables spoken carefully and perfectly and oh-so softly, contrasting with Minho’s cracked, spontaneous one, with little hollers and mumbles and words rolling down his tongue out of his mouth before he realises what they really mean. His eyes are clear and bright, holding the stars and the moon and the whole universe inside of them, accompanying him, their love, and Minho is nothing but a passerby in the middle of the night looking up at the night sky, wishing he could get closer.

Han Jisung, blond, tiny, scrawny Han Jisung with his round cheeks and small, rosy lips, now cradles Minho’s delicate heart in his lithe palms without even knowing it, could break it in a second, won’t even dream of doing that.

And Minho wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have my exams today and tomorrow so please wish me luck I'm fucking terrified :^)  
> Also if you enjoyed, make sure to leave a comment, they really brighten up my day!

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed. They mean the world to me.


End file.
